Monday, July 24, 2017

The Gift.


Last week involved another whack of cigar tube riding week for me.

Which I'm starting to hate more and more, especially the airport part, for all kinds of reasons, but mostly because of the mad scramble to get on and find a place to jam in your carry-on. I fly lots, but only on the cheapest tickets so all these quarter points are pretty much useless for anything.


When I got home late Wednesday night, the previous Sunday's edition of the New York Times, shown above, was just sitting there, big and fat, on my desk/table down in the subterranean homesick blues room.

Now, in case you haven't noticed, I still have quite a thing for dead-tree editions of the news and such.

It's so bad that when we go on driving road trips the space under my seat in the car fills to bursting with all manner of local rags and big chain homogenowipes from every town and hamlet that we stop in, even if it's only for cinnamon churros and licorice whips.

In contrast, at home I'm more restrained, mostly because I just don't have time to read everything cover-to-cover. So I only buy the NYTimes once a week, on Fridays, because I like to learn about all the shows and movies I will not see in considerable detail. Also, I get it for the Krugman v. Brooks on opposite sides of the same static page, all pugnacious like with guest spot Op-Ed's between them acting like referees that wouldn't know a low blow if it hit them right where it hurts.

Anyway, it turns out that the particular Sunday paper in question was bought for me, on that  particular Sunday, by littler e. in New York City.

She got it in Times Square while doing her dancing/intern thing for three weeks on her first big post-high school graduation adventure.

The next day we pretty much crossed paths in Pearson. I did not see her, although the text messages were flying.

Imagine that!

As you may have guessed I'm still reading that particular edition of the Sunday paper...Who knew their could be so many words in the Review of Books about Jane Austen on the 200th anniversary of something or other?



Anonymous said...

RossK I had to read this line four times before I caught it.

.... So I only by the NYTimes ....

Lenin's Ghost said...

Damn..... you lost me at cinnamon churros!

Scotty on Denman said...

Got some good advice years ago: when you fly into camp, make sure you have an armload of newspapers ---and a fith inside---for the most important man (as they almost always were) in camp, the bull cook. Especially if it's an introductory trip. You'll get a better room, won't get a burned steak, and probably won't catch any waves on account of your crew's boombox and dopesmoke excesses.

One co-worker who doubled as a cook had to defend himself---with a frying pan (didn't help)---when he burned my Saturday G&M cuz he thought it was old news (and because he thought ---until that day---tidying up my bunk was part of his job description). Apparently unconcerned with what's happening in the world---even weeks ago and totally inaccessible---he had never until then appreciated that not only I, but a number of my colleagues, would literally read every single word, gradually savouring every square centimetre of yellowing pulp over the course of a shift. Just like other such institutions, I might trade a couple smokes for part of the Sports galley.

I too seek out every local rag in every place I stop at. But I ain't like my old man, thank Christ! When I returned to nurse him back to health in my childhood home where he'd lived alone for fifteen years, he had stacked every newspaper (of which he read several daily) in the basement, right up to the ceiling, two-three layers deep (among other equally valueless stuff).

Good job it was rainy weather: whilst dealing with this hord I had a big bonfire out back until, after about a week into it, I finally mined down to the detritus of my own youth. I can still hear him banging on the bedroom floor with his rifle-butt, "What are you doing down there? Don't throw anything out!"

But, I must admit, whenever I needed to take a break, I'd crack a beer (Superior---cuz nobody else in Ontario seems to drink it) and randomly pull out a sheef of old news---and read every jot and tittle.

That was the second-last time I every flew in an airliner. Funny how places you haven't been for a long time always seem so much smaller. By the time I took my last flight a few years later, my knees were squished up against my face. I thought, "Jeez, hope I never have to do this again."

Anonymous said...

SH @ RossK

Your family is the real gift. When hate for the cigar tube becomes corrosive, maybe work around it?... do you really have to subject yourself to bodily transport????

Preserve thy self. First….

...and selfishly, your voice is not disposable….

RossK said...



Sorry 'bout that.



While I'm sure they didn't start out this way, I have learned that where ever you find such churros some thing good in a carny kind of way is sure to follow.



Folks in my house know not to throw out any shred of newsprint or cold coffee for that matter.

Heckuva story about your Dad's penchant for keeping it all. Me, I do throw (most) of it with reasonable regularity.

Old science geek papers in my office - not so much.



Ya - we do the work around's as much as possible. There are time, though, when you have to be there to really get things done and/or find out what is actually going on. Of course, that mostly happens during after hours get togethers that most definitely are not minuted.


Lenin's Ghost said...

Lol..... I've got a few of those sciency geek friends. After moving the last three times, I told her she has to cut down on some of the literature.
If you haven't opened the pages for over ten our backs get older